


Slime Time

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [36]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Space Hand Jobs, Weirdness, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s the boss of herself as much as she’s the boss of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slime Time

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Clara has a couple of kinks: audible male pleasure moans and (her own) orgasm denial/postponement. So she decides to give Twelve a huge wet sloppy handjob while kissing him, and wearing only her knickers.

Clara had never been much of a sex toy aficionado. Once you’ve found the right vibrator, maybe a dildo or three, what else is there? Nipple clamps? Novelty butt plugs? She’d had simple needs, once. No reason to clutter up her apartment with elaborate unitaskers.

And then she was shown the universe. She was taken - no, she took herself, she took herself on a whirlwind adventure through the cosmos. New places and species, sights and sounds. New experiences. New alien boyfriend. New difficult-to-explain charges on her credit card.

This one, this toy in particular, it’s a good ‘un. By the look on the Doctor’s face, he doesn’t entirely agree. But he trusts her, bless his heart; she could roll up with a 2-foot authentic reproduction of a space-dragon cock and he’d probably just turn around and spread his legs. This is significantly less intimidating, though. For the both of them. What would she even do with two feet of dragon penis?

The shopkeeper had called it the Helping Hand; the writing on the box failed to resolve into anything understandable. “Maximum Moist Touch Time,” it translated as occasionally. A pair of gloves, sort of 1980’s cyberpunk style, silvery grey and covered in neon green tubes. A little big on her hands, but then she’s never found gloves that weren’t a little big on her hands.

She undresses, putting on a show. The Doctor does his part and sits very still, acceptably imposing on his wing-backed chair. The imposing part was important - there needed to be a high point to fall from, a stern, clean slate to mess up. You need to be done-up to come undone. Collar buttoned high, waistcoat, jacket off because have you ever tried to get cum out of velvet? More trouble than it’s worth. He’s narrow and angular and severe but she knows, she knows what he’s like when he falls apart. Knows just how much he enjoys it.

Gloves on, various buttons pressed, the fluid reservoirs strapped securely to her wrists. She straddles him slowly, toying with his belt buckle, kissing him languidly. He keeps his hands on the armrests. No touching, that’s the rule.

She takes his cock out and, with the Supreme Activator Technology ™ module on her index finger, traces a line from the tip down to his balls. “What’s it feel like?”

“Um. Good? It’s. Oh.”

The gloves are vibrating now, oozing green goo. Certified non-toxic for 98% of humanoids. Fingers crossed. She wraps one hand around him, slides up. Watching his face, the muscles in his jaw twitch, his mouth fall open.

He’s noisy, so stupidly noisy, and she loves that. The groans and the stifled yelps and the high-pitched mewling. He’s easy, he’s obvious. Hips lifting up against her hand, trying very hard not to thrust. The green goo doing - whatever it’s doing.

(She could find out, she could, she could slide her free hand between her legs, touch herself, get gooed too. But it’s better if she doesn’t, better when she keeps the upper hand. He’ll come first, she’ll come maybe. She’s the boss of herself as much as she’s the boss of him.)

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay.” And then something wordless, an incoherent animal cry. He comes as the gloves spurt out one last hail-mary of goo, all over every inch of everything each of them has decided to be.

This is still hot, somehow. If sticky and smelling like, what. Pine needles? She shifts above him, clambers down. Thighs clenched together. He’s a mess. Is it wrong if that turns her on? If it’s harder now to clamp down on her arousal, drive it back, than it was with his dick in her hand? She can live with that.

“Space hand-job,” she says breathily, wiping goo off her face. “Cross that one off the bucket list, hey?”

The Doctor just groans, and squelches deeper into the puddle.


End file.
